


Little Details

by Kahvi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, M/M, Missing Scene, Season/Series 03 Spoilers, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-18
Updated: 2014-01-18
Packaged: 2018-01-09 03:22:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1140841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kahvi/pseuds/Kahvi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock wait for Mary to arrive, with varying degrees of patience - a short gapfiller for His Last Vow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Details

«You didn't say 'trust me'.» 

John is standing. Sherlock has not bothered to ask him to sit down, because the effort of keeping still is clearly more than enough right now. ( _Legs twitching. Fingers tapping._ ) The walls here smell sharply of disinfectant and a various organic waste, the irony of which does not escape him. «You're going to have to stay here for about seven minutes more, possibly eight. Sorry about that. I know it won't be pleasant.»

«I'm a doctor; I've smelled worse.»

Neither of them aknowledge the obvious misdirection in that statement. John shifts his weight, stands with his feet further apart, grounding himself. His hands shop shaking. Sherlock pretends not to notice. 

«Anyway, you didn't answer me.»

«You didn't ask me a question.» 

«Yeah, OK.» John's lips are twitching; not quite his aggressively murderous smile, not yet. «Fine: Why didn't you ask me to trust you?»

«You'll need to turn the collar up.»

«...what?» 

«The collar. We're creating an illusion; it doesn't have to be perfect, she'll see what she expects to see.» Possibly. Worth the gamble, at least. It's likely she won't shoot him again until she's absolutely certain she can get away with it, so John is safe. She'll want to bargain; if she doesn't she won't come inside. It's rather a moot point, he tells his rapid pulse. It, in turn, tells him to bugger of; it's got enough problems to deal with as is, and Sherlock relents the point. «Still, some little details do matter.»

«OK. Yeah.» 

John obliges, smoothing the fabric straight with angry fingers. It looks utterly ridiculous, and Sherlock smiles. 

«Funny,» John says. Unspoken, with his eyes and the muscles in his face and arms, he adds: _you find this amusing; this is the sort of thing you enjoy_. Sherlock remembers the train and does not blame him. 

«Better.» He lays a hand on John's shoulder, presses down, gently. John sits. Or, rather, his legs fold, taking the rest of him by surprise. Now he's looking up at Sherlock, but John Watson never really looks up at anyone. «Still not quite right.»

«Sherlock, why am I here?»

«I already explained that.»

«No, you didn't. You told me to come here, and I did. You won't let me take you back to the hospital, and you won't tell me what's going on, except that Mary's coming, and now you're telling me I need to dress like you and sit in this stinking cupboard-»

«-disused janitarial closet.»

«Is she in danger?» Their eyes meet long enough for Sherlock to realize that they are both playing a game at this point, which is perhaps rather appropriate. 

«Possibly,» he answers. It is true, after all. 

«And this is going to help.»

Sherlock starts to shrug, then thinks better of it. «We haven't much time.» He stands back, squints, evaluates. «Your hair is wrong.» He reaches out, and John grabs his hand at the wrist. Hard. Knuckles whitening. 

«Never mind the hair,» he hisses, enounciating every syllable. Sherlock could break the grip (and the hand) if he wanted to, but time _is_ short. «Tell me why I should trust you.» 

«You shouldn't.» John's fingers squeeze, nails nearly cutting skin. Sherlock bites the inside of his lips, breathes for half a time-wasting second, and goes on. «I won't ask it of you.»

«Why?»

«Because it's not fair.» Little pinpricks in his hand. Seconds ticking. «Careful with that; I'm a sick man.»

«Sherlock...»

«I know you don't trust me. That's why you are here. There's something you need to know, and I can't simply tell you.»

«What?» They look at one another. The hand stays. John's grip holds firm; by Sherlock's estimate, he could keep that pressure up for hours. He tries not to think about that. 

«Claire de Lune.» 

John's fingers go limp. Sherlock's hand falls to John's shoulder, but none of them flinch. «Hair,» Sherlock mutters, and takes advantage of the momentary silence. John's is shorter than his; the texture is different between his fingers as he slides them along John's scalp. Quickly. Skin brushes skin when he combs through it once, twice, pulling out and away roughly. «Better.» 

John does not look up at him. But, well, again; John doesn't really look up at anyone. He stares ahead, half-smiling. «How long?»

«Two minutes, give or take.»

«A lot could happen in two minutes.» 

Sherlock tilts his head, which is more painful than expected. (She had better not be late; they are on a schedule.)

«Don't look at me like that. I'm not stupid, you know. You don't ask for things, you manipulate people so you don't have to ask.» He twists in the chair, narrowing his eyes. Sherlock knows he is stalling, knows he wants to spend as little time as possible thinking about why they are _really_ there. And he knows that he deserves this. «I've seen the way you look at me.»

They are close enough that John must have seen Sherlock's eyes blinking, heard his breath catch. Like he says, he is not stupid. «I haven't-»

«Shut up, and let me finish. I know how you work. You're not above setting all this up just to get me to-»

Sherlock's phone vibrates loudly once, then twice again. Ah. Time to make a call.

«That was hardly two minutes,» John grunts. 

Sherlock flashes a smile. «I did say give or take.» He flicks the switch, and the lights go out.


End file.
